


The things we don't say

by pollythehomeless



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, I hurt my baby Shōyō, I'm Sorry, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Platonic Relationships, Self-Harm, fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollythehomeless/pseuds/pollythehomeless
Summary: Hinata was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. The perfect amount of shortness, hyper-activeness, idiocy, tenaciousness and a huge bright smile to top it all.But there were days in which it was too hard to smile, too hard to push himself to grab his bike and drag his sorry ass to school. On those days, he kept his eyes down and his lips sealed and everyone stared at him. He could feel their eyes on his body, theyknew, they couldsee.





	The things we don't say

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. I'm Polly.  
> I used to write quite a lot on other fandoms in my native language, then life got in the way, basically. Here I am again, my first _serious_ fanfiction since I can speak decent english. That's a big accomplishment.  
> Two words on the story. I recently watched _Haikyuu!!_ and loved it. Me being me, obsessed with rape recovery fic, I decided to write one on Hinata, seeing as there aren't many out there. Obviously I don't condone rape in any way. The story deals with a bunch of things listed on the tags, if they make you uncomfortable or trigger you in any bad way, please don't read.  
> If you are in a bad place, seek help, talk to your friends and family. Do something you enjoy even if it seems hard. I personally know it helps.  
> I apologize if there are typos or grammar error or _wathever_. Let me know if there are any, I'll correct them.  
> That being said, I know two people who were waiting for this story, so here it is.  
> Hope you all enjoy it, leave a comment below if you do!

Hinata was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. The perfect amount of shortness, hyper-activeness, idiocy, tenaciousness and a huge bright smile to top it all. He was usually happy to run around and joke with his classmates, he loved to play volleyball and tease his teammates between a set and a spike (he _especially_ loved his bickering with Kageyama. No one seemed to have noticed, but Tobio sort of blushed a bit when he teased him, and it was kinda cute as hell). 

 But there were days in which it was too hard to smile, too hard to push himself to grab his bike and drag his sorry ass to school. On those days, he kept his eyes down and his lips sealed and everyone stared at him. He could feel their eyes on his body, they _knew,_ they could _see._ When those days passed, he logically knew that no one could see anything, but the irrational part of his brain didn't totally agree. 

 Today was one of those days. He returned home from practice with that strange sensation in his gut, a sinking, hollow feeling right in his stomach that made his appetite disappear and his chest constrict tightly. At dinner he stared blankly at his bowl of white rice for a long while before excusing himself from the table with the lame reason of feeling too tired to eat (which totally wasn't believable, he knew very well; he always starved after practices). He decided to take a shower instead, to try and clear out his mind and relax, but once in the bathroom he realized it wasn’t going to be an easy task; he glared sideways at the large mirror above the sink, turning away his head every time he was too close to it. He couldn't stand to see his reflection, to see his frail little body, his dull, empty eyes, the downturn of his lips,  _the scars on his thighs and stomach_ -

 The hot water felt good against his skin, but he couldn't find it in him to sigh at the feeling. He couldn't make noises. Somehow, he felt like the world didn't need to hear his stupid whiney voice, he didn't deserve to vocalize his feeling, he should _just shut up you bitch-_

 He turned the tap to the left, feeling the water become hotter by the second, nearly scalding against his pale skin. He grabbed a loofah and the bottle of bodywash and began to scrub himself from head to toe minus between his legs. He couldn't touch _there, he couldn't-_

 He was glad the steam of the water condensed on the mirror; he could see his blotchy red skin but not his eyes, he couldn't make himself look up anyway. Just like his voice, he didn't deserve to look up. He didn't deserve to eat, _he was already fat anyway, who needed to eat more_ -

 He turned his back on the tricky mirror, frustrated with his brain and his grumbly stomach and the _freaking itch under his skin-_

 He hastily threw his clean underwear and pyjamas on and bolted to his room, clicking the door shut behind him and throwing himself on the bed, rummaging frantically in the back of the drawer of his bedside table. There it is, a package of new sharp blades, the spare ones they sell for crafting cutters. He didn't use them for nothing else except these times of need. He pulled down his pyjama pants just enough to expose his upper thighs. He was met with pale skin, just a few little scars barely visible. He never cut too deep anymore. He made that mistake the first time on the inside of his arm (not his wrist, just a bit higher. He never wanted to kill himself and the wrist was a too-close-call for him, so he avoided it), and remembered with bitterness the trouble to keep it secret from his mom and his teammates even after the scabs peeled itself off and the angry red puffiness around the three long cuts was just a vague memory. He was still uncomfortable with the bright white lines that remained on his skin, naked for everyone to see. He always felt too vulnerable whenever someone glanced in the direction of his left arm, internally squirming with the knowledge that _everyone knows, I am worthless I am-_

 He touched the tip of the blade to the expense of skin under the line of his boxers. That was a good spot to cut, no one could see there, even his volley shorts always covered it. The drag of the blade felt too good to be normal, he was aware. He stared mesmerized at the skin that parted itself to make way for fresh blood, bubbling to the surface in crimson, round drops. He smeared it a bit with a finger. It wasn't enough. He cut another line just under the first, and he _felt_ his body begin to slightly tremble inside from the endorphin high, but his hands remained steady.  _Yes. More._ He needed more pain. His brain was quieter but the sinking feeling in his stomach was still there, ever-present and all-consuming. He spread his legs a bit, making way for the blade to cut on the inside of his thighs. The skin was more delicate there, and it hurt _so, so good._ He cut four more lines, then closed his eyes and let himself _finally_ sigh in relief. The trembling increased but that too, like the pain, felt too good. His head was blissfully blank, and he could breathe more easily now. He felt like floating, and the next actions where automatically made without registering any of it, like dozens of times before. He was there, but at the same time, far, _far away_ from his body. He wasn't even aware of the pain anymore. He let himself revel in that sensations for a while longer before putting down the blades in their place, grabbing a paper tissue from the same drawer and gently dab the excess blood away. He then returned to the bathroom, cleaned the cuts with disinfectant and laid on his bed again. 

That night sleep eluded him, and he distracted himself overnight with games on his cell phone and stupid, topic-less videos on YouTube. He wanted to watch something about volley, maybe a national game or something funny, that usually made him laugh. But he didn't deserve happiness. He didn't deserve to enjoy volley and laugh so he laid there, staring blankly at the bright-coloured characters on his phone wishing it was all over. 

 

~

 

He hoped to feel better the next morning, but the night wasn't merciful with him. The lack of sleep brought him a pounding headache and to add insult to injury, the sinking feeling was back at full force. He felt like hell.   
His mom commented on the  _awfully dark circles_ under his eyes that he didn't know he had, because he still couldn't look himself in the mirror. That guy wasn't him, it  _wasn't.  
_He really didn't want to eat but not wanting to arise too much suspicion after last night, he forced himself to pick up his chopsticks, whisper a feeble _itadakimasu_ and dig on his breakfast.

 

_~_

 

_Stupid fat excuse of a whore._

 He forced his fingers deeper in his throat, gagging and retching loudly the last contents of his stomach into the school toilet. Thank God it was empty at this time of the day.

  _Look at him, good little whore he is, allright, all filled up. Maybe we should stop feeding him, a little more belly than he has and we can call him our little piggy whore._

 He pulled himself up, flushed the toilet and went to the sink to rinse his mouth. 

He couldn't wait to go home. School was hell. All the guys that wanted to talk to him, the teachers that wanted answers to questions, Kageyama that searched an excuse to start their daily bickering. He didn't want to hear his voice anymore. If he could, he would grab his vocal cords and rip them out his throat. 

The funny thing was that he _wanted_ to talk, but just couldn't. He felt that if he started, then the impulse would come to just _spill it all out._ He wanted so bad to tell someone, in the hopes of hearing something comforting like a "it wasn't your fault" but every time he thought about it, air wouldn't come easily to his lungs and his stomach churned so badly he could throw up on the spot. He intensively searched the internet -on incognito mode of course- for answers he didn't know he deserved. He wanted to feel like it wasn't his fault; every website or blog he found particularly stressed this point, but he just couldn't think that way. His rational mind grasped why it was important to understand that, but the part of his mind that was a complete mess couldn’t accept that _it wasn’t his fault._ It sounded like a complete lie. He said _yes, goddammit. He freaking said yes_ and even if _he_ lied, even if he was _scared shitless_ and there were _too many of them,_ even if it hurt and he whimpered and cried in pain and _hated it hated it hated it-_

_He didn’t say no._

He never said no in those three hellish hours. The internet specifically said that sex wasn’t consensual when one of the participants said _no_ to the other. He sort of gave his consent not saying no. He was recently starting to doubt his train of thoughts, since he found an article that dug deeper on the delicate matter that was consent and all his shades; but again, it currently was a war between the two sides of his brain, and said war wasn’t proceeding in the right path, it seemed.

 

_~_

 

 He googled about rape for the first time the first week of summer break, five months after it happened. He was dining at the kitchen table, the serious voice of the news’ journalist filtered through the area from the little tv on the kitchen counter. They were discussing the percentage of rapes throughout the country, comparing data from different years and regions. The discussion continued on a recent case happened in Tokyo, coupled with the victim’s testimony and cuts of the very public court case against the foreigner perpetrator.  
Suddenly, his dinner didn’t seem that appealing anymore, and he swallowed with difficulty the last bits of his grilled fish, before promptly bolting to his room and switch on his pc. He managed to read two articles before the sinking feeling in his stomach was too much to continue.  
Apparently (internet provided information), rape victims often suffered from some kind of PTSD. Be it nightmares, panic attacks, a general high level of anxiety, flinching at touches or high noises, every one of them has at least one of this side effects.  
He tried analysing himself; thought back to that chilly day of mid-March, on how he acted and felt in the following weeks. He remembered walking home in some sort of daze, keeping his vacant stare firmly on the ground, in the hopes of not being noticed by passers-by (or worse, someone he knew) and hide his _dirtiness_ from the world. He knew it was impossible to hide, he could _see_ the filth etched in his skin. He hunched his shoulders and burrowed in his heavy winter coat. It smelled of them. _He_ smelled of them. He remembered shying away from his mother hug (how could he hug her in that state, he could stain her with his filth and that awful smell and then she would know _everything he did_ and he simply couldn’t) and racing to the bathroom to thoroughly scrub his skin clean. Even half bottle of soap couldn’t wash him. It was as if he didn’t take a shower at all.  
He remembers a couple weeks -maybe a bit more- of blankness, broken by sheer _terror_ at someone _somehow_ finding out and flashes of paralyzing fear about the possibility of having caught hiv.

Then his life went on as always; after a month he experienced his very first nightmare, in which he was in a sealed dark room where he couldn’t see, and at some point someone entered and he _knew_ they were coming for him, someone was _approaching-_  
He woke up gasping and sobbing. He couldn’t stop himself and resigned to muffle his cries on his pillow and after an hour or so exhaustion claimed him and he fell asleep with his cheeks still wet. After that one nightmare, he didn’t have any. Nothing.  
Some days after, he tried touching himself. He stayed up late and his orgasm seemed to never come but when it did, it left him unsatisfied and crying, ashamed and disgusted at himself. He never tried to touch himself _down there_ again.

He spent the last months of middle school busy with studying for his finals, volleyball club and playing with the friends that he would not see again in high school and between the irregular odd bouts of depression he was _fine,_ so he tried to forget that day ever happened.

 All those things -the feeling dirty, the bouts of depression, the disgust at the thought of any form of sexual activity- he didn’t realize were the consequences of that day. He wasn’t good with his emotion, mainly because he had always been a happy, positive kid. Negative emotions weren’t in his book, so to speak. The day it happened, and the three months after, were kind of a blur, and he sort of went with the flood of his emotions, living them but not processing them. Thanks to the many internet searches, he finally understood that he was in denial of what had happened to him. Then started the conflict between rational and irrational. He understood that what experienced was bad but couldn't find it in him to see anything other than _it was my fault._

 

_~_

 

 

Eight months have passed and since he let his mind think about his first sexual experience as rape, he felt steadily worse day after day. He wished he could turn back in time and just continue on the path of ignorance. He was better, before. Sure, the first weeks were not good, but then he sort of tried to erase it from his mind and aside that few _bad days_ his life continued as always. Now his mind couldn’t stop thinking about that afternoon, scenes and sounds and _sensations_ repeating in his mind more and more, each time more vivid than before. The only way to silence those thoughts was the bite of the blade on his skin, but the more he cut, the more he felt conflicted about himself. He loved the pain and the stillness in his mind after a cut, but each new scar fuelled his self-hatred. It was a vicious circle that he didn’t know how to step out from. He secretly didn’t _want_ to stop. In a sick and twisted way, he liked to hate himself, because he deserved nothing but hatred.

He asked himself if he was still right in the head.

 

_~_

 

 

As the bell rang signalling the end of the day’s lessons, he dragged himself out the class to the gym, repeating in his head the excuse he was going to say to his captain to ditch afternoon practise.

When he arrived, the building was mostly empty, just Sawamura and Kageyama were already there in their sport attire, coach Ukai seated on a bench talking to someone on his phone. He approached his captain, swallowing nervously before greeting them.

“Sawamura-san” he called not too loudly in their direction, eyes casted down and fingers fiddling with each other, breaking off little pieces of nails.

The other two noticed him and frowned upon seeing his stance. Sawamura and Kageyama looked at each other for a brief moment, confirming what they were thinking about. It wasn’t the first time they had seen Hinata act that way. It happened every few days since they knew him, and it always surprised them how he could switch from hyper-activeness to… _this._ Since the school year started, everyone noticed that whatever was wrong with boy, it was steadily getting worse. The days in which he would sprint to the gym like a typhoon and bounce around for hours without tiring were less and less, and recently he had even started to skip a couple of practices with the reason of _not feeling well enough._ Today was one of those days, it seemed.

“I’m sorry Sawamura-san, I am not feeling very well, I’m going to head home early” he bowed deeply for a few seconds, hoping they weren’t going to ask questions.

Sawamura refrained himself from sighing. It wasn’t like he didn’t expect it. He looked again at Kageyama, who was scowling deeply at the red-haired, arms crossed and eyes staring at his currently bowed head. The setter looked again at his captain and Daichi took the chance to mouth a _find what’s wrong with him_ before Hinata could rise his head and see him.

“You look like shit Hinata, let me grab my bag, I’ll take you home” he harshly said, in that flippant, almost annoyed-like way of his. The truth was that he was just as concerned as their captain. He would never admit this to anyone, but he considered Shōyō his best friend. He liked him. Simply as that. He didn’t like people very much, and it had always been a problem for him to make friends, but with Shōyō, it just sort of clicked. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt comfortable around him; he didn’t need to pretend or force himself to be what others thought of him. With him, he could be his bad-at-school-and-volleyball-geek self and never get judged. He hoped Shōyō felt the same way.

“You don’t need to-“

“I want to, now shut up and let me take you home” he hastily grabbed his bag without changing his clothes and dragged Hinata out by his arm before he could escape.

The way to Hinata’s home was silent and tense. The red-haired head couldn’t stop churning the thought of revealing his distress around and around. Could it make him feeling better? Worse? It surely seemed more likely to make him feel worse. The tightening of his chest at the mere thought was, in his opinion, a very clear sign. At the same time, however, he had the impression that if he just spit it all out, a massive weight was going to lift off his chest. He wanted to cut so badly right now, just to silence the _mess_ that was his head. He opted to just alternate between scratching at his arm and sink the irregular edges of his fingernails in the reddened skin.

Kageyama noticed, but knew better than to comment on it.

Fifteen minutes later they were in front of Hinata’s house.

“Well, thank you Kageyama-“

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome. Offer me something to drink, I’m thirsty” he nudged Shōyō aside from his spot in front of the door, signalling for him to _open the door already._ Asking with gentleness was pointless, just like commenting on his nervous tics or on the faint white lines he saw countless of times in the gym’s changing rooms -if the idiot thought no one had seen them he was delusional. It was clear the guy had no intention to tell his teammates -or just one of them, _someone, really-_ what was wrong; Sawamura and Sugawara tried to coax a response out of him in similar occasions but were always met with a shrug or, if they were lucky, a _nothing’s wrong, don’t worry about me._ So waiting for him to confide in someone was like asking him to grow taller overnight. Clearly impossible.

Maybe a more callous and direct approach was the right way to go. Sawamura thought so anyway. They talked about it the last time Shōyō skipped practice, and everyone seemed to agree in the fact that Kageyama was their best shot at finding something out. He promptly made a face at that; he wasn’t good with emotional stuff, and that seemed to be the root of the problem. He vocalized his dissent but the others were already set that way, and another ten minutes of Sawamura trying to make him see reason convinced him to give it a shot. Shōyō was his best friend after all, it sort of was his duty to cheer him up for a change, it always was the other way around. He owed it to him.

He could see the internal battle going on inside Shōyō’s head, the uncertainty of inviting him in. Politeness win over at last, and he opened the door, gesturing him toward the stairs and up his bedroom, with orders of waiting for him to come upstairs with drinks.

 

_~_

 

He opened the door of his bedroom with a foot, balancing a tray with mugs of cold green tea in his hands. Tobio had leaved his bag near the door, and was seated on the floor, his back resting on the side of the bed. It was strange seeing him in a so familiar environment. Few people had entered his bedroom so far (not counting his mother and little sister) and if at the start of the semester someone had told him _Kageyama_ of all people would be stand there in a couple months, he wouldn’t have believed it. The friendship with the _King of the Court_ was an unexpected one, but not unwelcomed for that. It was strange, how they could understand each other with just small gestures or simply a look; he never, in his short life, experienced a connection like that.

_Tell him, tell him, tell him-_

“Here, I brought tea” he deposited the tray on the floor and proceeded to silently sit beside the blue-haired, knees hugged to his chest. He felt oddly vulnerable.

Tobio sipped his cold tea for a few minutes, before setting the mug down.

“Ok, what’s wrong” he could feel Tobio’s eyes right on his skin like a physical touch, but didn’t dare look in his direction. _It was a bad idea to let him come in, he won’t go away without a decent answer-_

“Nothing’s wrong” he mumbled in his crossed arms, hoping to sound convincing enough but knowing he really wasn’t.

“Don’t give me this crap again Shōyō, everyone knows that’s not true. We are worried about you, I- “ he stopped, and Hinata chanced to look just a bit in his direction, seeing him looking down at his fiddling hands “ _I am_ worried about you” he sighed “I understand if you don’t want to talk to the others, but…” _at least talk to me._ It wasn’t spoken out loud, but Hinata could hear it clearly in his tone of voice. “It just… what’s wrong, Shōyō?” he searched his eyes, finding them covered by his messy orange locks.

“It… “ he sighed, the sound of his voice seeming foreign to himself “something happened…” he vaguely said, and realized a beat later that _that wasn’t supposed to get out what the fuck-_

Silence surrounded them, and he couldn’t stand it-

“The last year of middle school I met this guy in one of those friendly match with other schools… he was older, last year of high school. Was so cool, helping the other team with volley, giving them tips and so on… he watched the game, and after said I was very good, and well, this and that… you know…”

_What the actual fuck are you doing saying this shit stop it stop-_

“He asked if I wanted to practice with him in my spare time after club, and we saw each other at the park every now and then, playing volleyball. It was cool” he could feel the pressure starting to squeeze his lungs, but he couldn’t stop now. The pressure felt kind of good. He wanted to cut.

_Something wasn’t truly right in his head._

_“_ I liked him-” and thank god he could at least stop himself from explaining just what kind of _like_ he was talking about; but in the end it was just a matter of time before Tobio caught on “and it nearly was the end of the semester, it was cold outside and the park wasn’t all that inviting. He asked if I wanted to go someplace closed to practice with him, I said yes. Why not”. A bitter, short laugh escaped his lips, and though he was starting on the worst part, his chest didn’t feel that much constricted anymore. Maybe he was resigning himself. The damage was already done, Tobio was going to listen and leave and probably ignore him at school the next day, and the next, maybe _forever_ -

“Go on” the other urged, and startled Hinata from his frantic thoughts; he couldn’t understand what he was thinking of him, his voice didn’t let through any emotion.

“I thought we were going to some sort of gym or something like that, but we ended up at his place. He lived alone, apparently. We ended up playing videogames on his play station for a bit, and then he… well…” it was so freaking _embarrassing_ to tell “he just grabbed my face and kissed me”. It came out more like a single exhale, and maybe, _just maybe,_ it wasn’t fully _understandable_ , but a quick glance at the surprised expression on Tobio’s face told him, _that’s it. Oh my god what have I done-_

“And that’s it” he forced out a strangled, breathy laugh “You can go home now, I’m all better-“

“I swear to god Shōyō, if you…” Tobio gritted his teeth, huffed loudly and combed a hand through his already messy hair, visibly frustrated “Finish… this, whatever _this_ is”.

He felt like crying. Like throwing up. And scream, and stomp and _sleep and never wake up, that’s better than this-_

“I- I’m… Tobio that’s… it was…” he stammered, furiously breaking his nails one after another. He took a deep breath. “I liked him and I though why not? So I let him and he started touching me, I wanted to know if I liked  _that too,_ you know, with an _him,_ and it was uncomfortable and not good at all, he called me names and his friends too, they were _so mean_ to me Tobio, I didn’t even _know_ them, but they did _it_ anyway and then I went home and never saw him again”. He finished whit that single breath, at least he thought was one, definitely _felt_ like one.

The silence was broken by the furious thumping of his heart and the _swoosh_ of the blood in his ears, maybe that was why Tobio was silent, he was listening to his heart trying to explode in his chest-

“They… what…” he gulped “Shōyō you are… are you…? “ a pause “His _friends?!”_

“You don’t want the details” actually, in a very twisted, masochistic sort of way, he wanted to say all those nasty, dirty details. His heart was galloping, but his mind was strangely clear and surprisingly calm. Maybe talking about it really helps.

“Do _you_ want me to want them?” he hoped it was the right thing to say. There was hardly something to say at the moment, really.

Hinata took a moment to consider the fact that Tobio hadn’t commented on his being, maybe, gay. He didn’t even know himself anymore; girls surely weren’t his cup of tea. Tobio should be disgusted by now, maybe he was too shocked to show it.

“I like guys” he blurted out “not in _that sense._ Not anymore anyway, I think. I don’t know. I _told_ you I liked him, right? I wanted to understand if I _really_ liked guys in that sense, so he kissed me and that was the chance. I wasn’t liking any of it but maybe it was normal, what do I know; at some point he went to the front door and a bunch of other guys came in and they _saw_ me, I didn’t know what to do, I just… went with the flow. They said I was pretty, I was so embarrassed. And then they did _it_. It was… disgusting. They didn’t call me pretty anymore after a while. But I let them finish, I couldn’t say no, it sort of seemed… rude? I couldn’t just walk away after I let them… start… _things._ And then it was my fault for thinking I liked guys, I wanted to try so it was totally me that let things happen-“

“Don’t repeat that _ever_ again in my presence or I swear…” his voice sounded strangled and he was beet red in the face, his expression going from shocked, to frowning to sad. “It was _not_ your fault Shōyō-“

“The internet is full of people saying that, but that doesn’t apply to me”

“That was _rape,_ Shō-“

“It _wasn’t! Maybe!”_ then silence “Do you think it was?” he curled himself as a little a ball as physically possible, voice barely a whisper.

The silence after stretched for an eternity.

“Yes” came the simple answer “and there’s no room for doubt, or situations or _your decisions._ You didn’t want that, and when you don’t give your consent, that _is_ rape.

“But I didn’t say _no-“_ he didn’t understand why he was trying to defend or excuse _them_ , he wasn’t understanding a lot of things. He wondered if he would even remember this conversation tomorrow, everything felt blurred.

His protests where cut short by Tobio violently circling his long arms around his shoulders, crushing him in an awkward hug.

“It wasn’t your fault. They treated you in the worst way possible and it isn’t your fault if there are _scumbags_ like that on the Earth; I am just sorry you had to meet them Shōyō. You didn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to feel bad because of them” he sounded strained, sad and a touch awkward. He covered it tightening the circle of his arms around him.

After months of listening to his traitor of a brain, hearing that simple _you didn’t deserve it_ was what did it for him. He felt his eyes getting wetter, his lower lip tremble in the effort of keeping it together; the arms around him and Tobio strong, warm chest beneath his red cheek were _bliss_ , and he realized how _starved_ he was for a single loving touch that wasn’t his mother’s. He soaked up the attention, unconsciously nuzzling his cheek in little up-and-down motions, fisting his hands in the soft cotton at the back of Kageyama’s shirt.

"It was horrible" his voice broke, tried to make it sound normal again "No one could like me if they knew what I did, what they made me do... They called me a- a… a _worthless whore._ God I was so stupid, I really am a worthless, useless _idiot_ -“

“Don’t say things like that about yourself. I don’t like hearing them” Tobio sighed “You make me worry so much, stupid idiot of a dwarf”

He sighed out an outraged breath -at himself for making Tobio worry, and for being called a dwarf “I’m not a dwarf”

“You aren’t worthless and useless neither. But definitely stupid” the other laughed the last bit, and for some inexplicable reason, seeing the situation he was in, it made him laugh too.

 

_~_

 

“Are you feeling a bit better?”

They were still entangled in each other, in a more comfortable position on the bed. Kageyama noticed how Shōyō literally _soaked up_ his affections, and decided to cast aside is embarrassment for the other’s well-being’s sake; after a few minutes of that lopsided hug, his back gave a twitch of discomfort, so he manoeuvred them both on Shōyō bed, him seated cross-legged with his back to the wall, the shorter draped over him like the monkey he was, still clutching at his shirt and with his face burrowed in his chest. He thanked god Shōyō hadn’t started crying, he _didn’t_ _have a clue_ on how to deal with someone _crying;_ with this, he could deal just fine. Secretly, he was even _pleased_ he was the one Shōyō searched comfort in, not just because that was a sign he trusted him with something so personal and emotional, but even because -and it took a bit of an internal battle between his pride and his feelings to admit it- he had wanted to get _this_ closer to the guy since he first saw him (ok it wasn’t a _bit_ of a battle, it was a _fucking war, thank you very much)._ He was so little in his arms, the thump of his heart and the huff of his breath resonating in his chest.

Hinata whimpered, and tried to get closer to him, even if it was physically impossible; he reflexively brought a hand to his head, carding his fingers through the short, soft hair at the base of his neck.

“Thank you Tobio”

He glanced down, spying a couple of shy eyes peeking at him from their hidden spot, the shadow of a blush on the cheeks under them. He found the courage to press a light kiss on Shōyō temple. They should talk. They _definitely had to._ He decided they could wait another day for that.

“Don’t thank me, idiot”

 

 


End file.
